by Jane Goodall
As Briony approached the northern entrance to Lucan Place she stepped up the forced march, as if to suppress any temptation to walk in. But something was working away now in the part of her brain that functioned up there in that building. Evidence. Macready had said, ‘It was a mask, made of some kind of rubber or latex, a sophisticated piece of work, replicating the features of Maxwell Tremlay with a high degree of accuracy.’ And Aidan had taken pictures of someone wearing a latex mask. The yellow figure under the lamplight was a masquerader — that was the only explanation. How stupid not to see it before. Jimmy must have the enlargements ready now from Aidan’s photographs, something she’d intended to follow up on before death decided to get in the way. And life.
She turned around and headed west again, back the way she had come. According to the first of her leaflets, the term of a pregnancy was forty weeks. If she was to have an abortion, it should be done within the first twelve, and two of those were gone. If she was to catch Macready’s killer, there was no time to lose. The first seventy-two hours after the incident — the most vital — were already gone and from now on every day counted heavily. It was another half-mile to Jimmy’s shop and her pace had not slackened.
*
Aidan was woken by a battering on the front door. He glanced at his watch, then rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans. From the top of the stairs, he could see a silhouette through the mottled glass panel on the door. Flak. The battering had stopped, but the silhouette remained there and Aidan waited, watching its movements. Flak was one of those people who were never still, always twitching and shifting his balance.
How he’d found the place was not such a mystery. Keeping it secret was never part of the game plan, and with the Vespa parked outside anyone could identify it. All the same, this was an odd turn-up, specially at this time of the morning. Most of the punks didn’t surface before the afternoon, let alone by 9 am. Flak’s head came closer to the glass, then his face pressed against it, creating a mask not unlike the ones he wore on stage.
‘Wakey wakey!’ he yelled, smacking the glass with the flat of his hand.
‘Give us a minute.’ Aidan threw on the rest of his clothes, checked the camera and the other essentials in his jacket, and went down. When he opened the door, Flak was sitting on the fence, kicking the garden gate.
‘Got yer jacket on then,’ he remarked. ‘You seem very attached to that thing — considering it must get you a bit hot under the collar.’
‘What’s up?’ Aidan asked. ‘Bit early for visitors, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? I’d say it’s a bit late. But then, you see, I been busy all night. Haven’t had time to get a kip yet. I might do that another night. You don’t smoke, I noticed.’ Flak took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘I saw you in the crowd, up at Highgate. Did you enjoy the show?’
Aidan stared at him. ‘You got me out of bed to ask me that?’
‘To ask you if you want to do an audition. I seem to remember you went out of your way to tell me you were looking for a gig. Vocals and guitar, that’s what you said. I’m auditioning for a vocalist.’
‘Yeah? I thought you already had one.’
‘Kaiser.’ Flak snorted. ‘That boy is annoying the hell out of me. He’s a dead loss.’
‘Didn’t look like it to me. From what I saw the other day I’d say he was a true Gorgon.’
‘You’d be wrong there. In any case, I’ve decided what the Suddens need is a Rasta and I think you might be good in the role. But you seem to be trying to talk yourself out of it. What’s the hesitation?’
‘I don’t rev up at this time of the clock, man.’
Flak took a packet of white crystals out of his pocket. ‘This might help.’ He jumped off the fence. ‘I got things set up, so it’ll have to be now. Better get yer instrument — opportunity knocks.’ Aidan fetched the guitar and returned. ‘Where we going?’ ‘Triangle.’ Flak set off at a cracking pace.
When they arrived, the doors of the building were wide open. It still stank of beer and piss, but empty of people and with the bar all locked up, the place just looked like a vacant warehouse. Flak went over to the platform at the far end that served as the stage and switched on the Marshall stack, creating an ear-splitting howl of feedback from the lead still attached. Aidan pulled it out and plugged his guitar in its place, crouching to adjust the levels, then plucked out the tune of ‘God Save the Queen’ with a heavy vibrato, Hendrix-style. He followed that with a camped-up hard rock version, sliding into a rendition of ‘Anarchy in the UK’. At the edge of his field of vision he could see Flak was yawning.
Aidan stopped abruptly. ‘You just want a smash-up artist? That’s not me.’
‘I’m waiting for you to rev up, that’s all.’
Repositioning himself closer to the amplifier and with his back towards Flak, Aidan adjusted the volume on his guitar and started improvising, building up to a faster, fuller sound then letting the strings ring to get some feedback. He played into it, swinging his body close to the amp to bring the pick-ups into play, taking it up an octave then down again, building and building, till the sweat was running off him and the sound was running through him. Finishing with a dive-bomb, he heard the slow clapping behind him as if it came from another room.
‘Nice,’ said Flak. ‘Very. Now give me some reggae.’
Aidan stared at him. ‘Upbeat? For the Suddens? You gotta be kidding.’ He unplugged the guitar. ‘You know what I can do, man. And you know where to find me.’
‘All right. You’re on.’
‘Is that an offer?’
Flak made a thumbs-up sign. Then he fished deep in the pocket of his overalls and came out with something rolled up in greaseproof paper. ‘Take a look at that.’
Aidan unrolled it and found himself staring at a distorted rubber face that dangled obscenely from his hand.
‘You can keep it,’ said Flak. ‘Let’s call it an advance payment. It’s worth forty quid. Work of art, see. Make sure you’re back here four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
37
Aidan was left with the rest of the day to think about what he might be getting into. If he went through with the arrangement, he’d be directly contravening Fletcher’s instructions. On the other hand, there were always stories going round in the Met about officers who’d bypassed instructions to make a breakthrough in a case. As for the other sorts of risks he’d be running ... they’d have to be calculated, wouldn’t they?
He pulled the mask out from the inside pocket of his jacket and slipped it into an evidence bag before making a closer inspection. Through the clear plastic, its features were obscenely squashed and distorted, like the face of a corpse under water. He exposed the edge and looked closely at the gelatinous, half-translucent rubber, which wobbled in response to any movement. That was the cleverness of it. It moulded to the features of the person wearing it, moved with their expressions. Who could make a thing like this? He poked at the rubbery edge with a finger.
It reminded him of something — that little kid with red hair, holding out a ball made of what looked like old yellow rubber bands. Yes. The ball had exactly that tacky, yielding quality. What was it the kid said? One of the spikers had given it to him. Aidan decided to keep the mask for now, and returned it to the lining of his jacket.
He jumped on the Vespa and retraced the route he’d taken on his first night in the World’s End, stopping at the side gates of the power station and taking a good look over the wall by the railway line. Then, figuring that the boy probably came from one of the residential streets nearby, he toured them, looking for kids of any description. There were plenty about, seeing it was school holidays. The problem was that he attracted such immediate attention that it was difficult to just observe, and a small boy like that would be easily missed in the clusters of kids hanging about in the streets, or amongst the furious bike riders who streaked past him.
For the third time he rode around the right angle of Lots Road without seeing the boy he was looki
ng for. He turned into Burnaby Street, thinking he’d have to get some help from the uniforms, when a football came at him full-pelt, hit him in the thigh and nearly knocked him off the scooter.
‘Watch out!’ he yelled, putting a foot on the ground and killing the engine.
‘You watch out, Spade.’ There was laughter as the offender grabbed the ball and took another shot.
This time, though, Aidan caught it: a leather football, a Casey — prized possession, no doubt, even if it was a bit flat. A small circle of boys had gathered. The tallest of them was no higher than his shoulder, but together they were a force to be reckoned with. Or believed they were, judging by the set of their faces.
‘Giz that back or I’ll welt ya.’
One of the kids advanced a couple of steps. The leader, judging by his stance. Aidan studied the ragged lines of the crew cut, the blunt features and creased-up eyes. How old would he be? Ten and a half going on forty. ‘Going to introduce yourself?’ he asked.
‘That’s Conker,’ said one of the others.
Aidan could see why.
‘Giz the ball, Spak.’ Conker’s voice had the force of an iron mangle.
‘Nick’s my name, matter of fact.’ Aidan lobbed it back so it got the kid square in the chest. ‘You wanna learn some manners, Badboy. If you’da been nice and polite, I might have pumped it up for you.’
Figuring that it would be worth hanging around with Conker & Co. for a while, he parked the Vespa behind a pillar box to shield it from further missiles, and walked over to where they had mustered.
‘This is Burnaby Street, isn’t it?’ he asked. There were nods from the two kids who’d positioned themselves either side of Conker, like lieutenants. ‘Where do you lot live then?’
‘Up on the estate.’ Conker gestured towards the high rise towers to the east.
‘So what’s the attraction of this particular spot?’
‘It’s where we ride the bikes,’ said Conker. ‘Ya going to pump the ball up for us or not?’
‘Giz your pump then.’
Conker was instantly back on the offensive, the skin reddening visibly under the crew cut. ‘Ya spaz! If we had a pump we’d do it ourselves.’
Aidan took out a twenty-pence piece and held it up between finger and thumb. ‘Let’s toss for it. Either I go and get you a pump,’ he said. ‘Or I get on the scooter and give you the bum’s rush — which is pretty much what you deserve, considering the way you talk to strangers.’
‘Heads!’ came the chorus, before he’d even tossed the coin. He flipped it, covered it with his hand and left a suitable pause before declaring, ‘Heads it is.’
‘Shop’s round the corner in Tetcott Road,’ said Conker. ‘Pumps are one pound thirty. We need a couple of em.’
‘I’m sure you do, man. But if you expect me to spend that sort of money, you might have to help me out. I’m looking for someone. A kid with red hair. Ears like this.’ He gestured with his hands.
‘Wingnut!’ shouted a small boy standing at the edge of the group. ‘He lives in Uverdale Road.’ The boy heaved a bold breath, then added, ‘I’ll go and get him if you give me a quid.’
Aidan shook his head. ‘We already made a deal.’
‘What ya going to do to him then?’ asked the boy.
‘Just want to ask Mr Wingnut a question, that’s all. If you was to go fetch him, that would be greatly appreciated.’ Aidan flashed the smile again.
*
Jimmy showed Briony into the office at the back of the shop and pulled a chair out for her. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? Here, sit down. You look like you just done a five-mile run.’
‘Half a mile.’ She dropped into the chair. ‘I need to have another look at those photos Aidan took.’
‘I’m supposed to be reporting to DCS Fletcher on this, Briony. You’re going to get me into trouble.’ He took the other chair, positioned it next to her and sat down. ‘What have you been running for?’
‘I dunno.’ Briony took a longer, slower breath. ‘It started out as a walk. I just wanted to do some thinking, you know?’
‘And naturally enough you started thinking about the case.’
‘What else is there to think about?’ She found her voice wavering as she said this.
‘Cup of tea?’ asked Jimmy. ‘I’d say you need it.’
When he returned with the tray, he handed her a plate with a set of prints on it. ‘Since I don’t suppose either of us feels like eating cake,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d better serve you up something you wanted.’
She grabbed his wrist. ‘Thanks, Jimmy. I promise I won’t get you in trouble.’
He pressed her hand lightly before detaching himself to pour the tea. ‘Can’t say I care about that too much. Not after what’s happened. All that matters really is that we catch the bastard, isn’t it? And when it comes to bastard-catchers, I reckon you’re about as good as we’ve got now.’
They laid the prints out on the table in rows. The masked face loomed forward, getting larger with each frame, but increasingly out of focus beyond the first row. Briony was disappointed. This wasn’t going to be enough to confirm her hunch. The face was held at an angle to the camera, its features obscured by shadows from the tree.
‘Were you given a copy of that fanzine — Yeller?’ she asked. ‘I want to check something.’
He fetched it and she laid it out so the Walker photograph was side by side with the clearest image of the mask.
Briony looked at Jimmy. ‘What do you think?’
‘Same face, you mean?’
She nodded.
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘Then can you say whether this one might be a mask?’ She pointed to the Walker’s face.
He switched on the desk lamp and leant in closer. ‘It’s possible,’ he said.
*
Returning to Burnaby Street with a bicycle pump and a puncture kit, Aidan spotted the red-haired kid standing at the edge of the group and went over to him. ‘Wingnut — is that what they call you?’
The boy looked at him, eyes screwed up against the glaring sun. The bike he was holding was a pathetic object, its handlebars mottled with rust. Conker gave the front wheel a kick.
‘You can’t even do an endo on that,’ he said.
‘Probably because you got no brakes left.’ Aidan ran his thumb along one of the rubbers. ‘Completely worn down, see? And yer tyres are flat. You need to do a bit of maintenance.’ He produced the pump from his inside pocket, attached it and began pumping. ‘I met you once before,’ he said casually. ‘Over by the railway line.’
Wingnut was frowning intently. ‘You won’t be able to pump up that tyre because it’s had nails in it.’
‘Now he tells me!’ Aidan pulled out the inner tube and held it up. Three ragged punctures were visible to the naked eye, but a bit of patching might have some effect, temporarily at least. He opened the puncture kit and began to sort through it. ‘You told me about the spikers before, didn’t you? When I met you on the railway.’ He kept his attention on the punctures, feeding the questions in as scraps of idle conversation. ‘Where do they live then, these spikers?’
‘In Lots Road. Number 93. Just down there.’ He pointed, but this seemed to inspire sudden fury in Conker, who threw the bike to the ground and grabbed Wingnut by the collar.
‘Oi, watch it!’ Aidan moved to pull the two boys apart, but it was no easy job. Conker began vigorously strafing the top of Wingnut’s head with his knuckles. Just as suddenly, he let him go as if nothing had happened.
‘Hey!’ Wingnut howled. ‘What’s that for then?’
Conker didn’t give Wingnut so much as a glance. ‘Shuddup, that’s all.’
So, thought Aidan, spikers are a forbidden topic are they? Or is it their address that’s protected information?
Thing was to get Conker and his mates out of the way so he could check out number 93 for himself. For the next twenty minutes he worked on the bike, restoring its tyres to a functioning sta
te, oiling the chain, straightening the set of the handlebars. Conker took in the stages of the operation from sideways glances and copied them with his own bike, ostentatiously spinning the pedals to show the effects of his work.
‘Just about ready to race now, I reckon,’ said Aidan, standing up. He pointed to the pillar box. ‘That’s the marker for the finish line. You go down the end of Burnaby Street, round Cremorne Road and back down Uverdale to here. See who wins on two rounds.’
‘You being the starter?’ asked Wingnut.
‘No. I gotta go.’
He saw them off, then moved the Vespa out of sight in an alleyway that cut through halfway along the block.
38
Sharon was taking a whole new interest in manhole covers. There were so many of them, and all different: round ones, square ones and others shaped like doormats. Some were battered old things with mud and grass trodden into them, while others were elaborately carved iron plates proudly embossed with the maker’s name. There were three just along the World’s End Passage. She crouched to examine one: Hayward’s Patent Self-locking Plate. Borough of London.
‘Sharon!’ Zig turned and came back towards her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking for possible escape routes,’ she said. ‘That’s where I met the evil hobbits, remember?’ She pointed to the high-rise estate. ‘I’m sure they had it in for me. If those kids chased you into this passage on their bikes it could be a very nasty situation. It’s not as if I’d want to escape over the wall into the school, is it? How well do you know him then, Johnny Mullighan? Have you been to his place before?’
‘Not recently. I went there a few times when they started the magazine, to help with the printing.’ Zig inhaled from the remaining stub of her cigarette, then tossed it away. ‘Let me do the talking?’